babel on: five conversations about jack frost (and one with)
by Riana1
Summary: Gossip will get around the world before the truth can get out of bed, or in other words, what the spirits, spooks, and supernaturals think about Jack Frost.
1. Chapter 1

Standard disclaimers apply.

I. WIND

The wind came at his back, pressing down and springing off like a March hare over a meadow patch causing Guy Fawkes to twist his stumble into a sidestep. The wind twined and twisted around him in a whirlwind of chatter; blown away words about a new playmate of some sort.

"Bugger off you barmy breeze, if you think I'm going to listen to you blather on about shite before I even get off the bloody corpse road! Go nick a newspaper and wait for a lad to at least to get a pint in him before pouncing in."

Guy shoved forward, walking widdershins towards the distant village lights, avoiding the churchyard with the wind nipping at his heels impatiently.

"Budge up and move over and I promise you those new goblin shanties you are so keen about. I sit on the bloody green and sing them to you all afternoon tomorrow if you just let me get to the pub."

The air turned still and Guy Fawkes smiled, pulling a cig out of his pocket and lighting it with a small burst of flame from his finger. The wind was the best gossip in the all the worlds but the not the most incoherent: nothing but snatches and snitches of everything spoken in the open air. Still with a bit of patience and a bent ear for purloined poetry, you could charm news from the wind faster than a bird out of her skirt—all it took was the right touch, even if it meant that Guy Fawkes had to sit out on village green singing, 'dance magic dance' tomorrow.

Guy snorted and dragged out a puff on his cig, "Jack Frost, huh, I'll have to gen up about you but not before I have three pints in me. Hadn't had a proper beer since Candlemas. Goblin ale ain't fit to strip paint—paint deserves better," he muttered before making a beeline for the bright lights of the pub across the way.

*cookies for spot the reference.*


	2. Chapter 2

II. GROUNDHOG

Guy Fawkes genuinely liked the Groundhog.

Everyone liked the Groundhog (everyone except the rabbit but Guy figured razzing the rabbit couldn't only be **his** hobby) and the Groundhog was just genuinely /likeable/, a good old bloke always with a cuppa and a couch to crash on if you need to. His actual name was some sawed off chittering that made Guy's ears hurt so Guy just called him Chuck or Phil or Sam, whatever name seemed to fit that day. He was inoffensive and anuncluar as a marmot in a sweater vest could be and unnerving as only the mildly oracular could be; which is why every hair on the back of Guy's neck stood at attention when the conversation swerved from talk of brownie made brandy Guy picked up in the village of Wall to some winter spirit harassing poor May before bloody Beltane.

"Hold it Chuck, he **frosted** her **flowers**? Tell me you picked up some new euphemism from Val and the twit didn't tangle with the May Queen before May Eve. Is there anything left of the little swot to sweep off into the bin?"

Chuck peered into his teacup and replied, "Miss May was rather vexed over the whole matter and I do believe some threats of vine violence were made towards Mr. Frost and he heeded the better part of valor and headed north."

Guy leaned back and laughed, "I always knew May always was a kinky bird under all that sweet schoolmarm routine—bondage in bloom. I bet she didn't know whether to smack the lad or snog him. Her blood always did run hot in spring before the buildup to summer hits. I always drop in at Greengrove during the off season; our May is a much nicer hostess when she has time to cool off. The yetis might keep her busy with the evergreens and such, but she is always finds time to skive off with me with a bit of her rootwork to go to play billiards with the mortals. Give her some time and she will want to make up and be sending a fruit basket to the little wanker in a week. Shite, she does it every year the Black bastard and no one has seen him in a decade."

Chuck tilted his furry head in thought, "Mr. Black…aside, I do not think that Mr. Frost has a permanent place of residence—."

"You said he went north, right? Nick will give him a place to zonk out. All you have to do is knock on the front door and ask for to see the red suited bastard and you're having a knees up with the elves! May will be up there with Phil and her dryads before Michealmas with the mistletoe and all. I might tag along to see that—Chuck, you haven't told Val about any of this right? 'Cause I might mock May a bit but I still love the girl enough not to throw her to the romance wolves."

"Some cupids stopped over last week but I am afraid," Guy tensed as Chuck continued; "all that we spoke of was a new scones recipe."

Guy Fawkes dropped his cup on the table with a clang and slammed back on the paisley couch with a sigh of relief. He reached up and fiddled with the collar of his leather jacket, trying to get the gravecrossed chill off his neck. 'This is what the Hindenburg felt like before she went up in flames,' Guy thought before dropping a stare at unruffled rodent adding a sugar cube to his tea.

"Chuck, Val does good work with the mortal sorts but his track record with..us does tend to be hit or miss. You know Val will frame this incident with May and this Jack Frost as some 'Meet Cute' and proceed with going commando-cupid, aiming for a 'Relationship Upgrade.' He'll tear out all the pink and posies and potions until there is nothing but a smoking hole in the ground," said Guy.

"He introduced me to my wife," Chuck declared, openly stroking his sweater vest with affection, before turning his attention back to his tea, "and he did do wonders for Mr. St North and Ms. Befona despite the rocky start."

"Smoking hole in the ground, Chuck," Guy shouted. "Tuskunga, ring any bells, mate? I do not want to be around to see the dust up when a spirit of summer and winter get into it with bloody St. Valentine egging them on. Don't know the Jack Frost fellow, but I have lived with May. A sweetheart and bless her mother henning ways, but give the girl her ground and she bodge the bastard into the dirt and then bonk his brains out. The Queen of May driven randy as a cupid on brandy is **not **a sight you want to see—global warming doesn't need to be kick-started into high gear here!"

Chuck looked off at cross stitched kitten picture on the wall thoughtfully while Guy Fawkes gritted his teeth and tried not to set the couch on fire. Guy might not be a lares, a kami, or what did North call his little club- a Guardian, but he was not a man without means. He knew all the byways, highways, sideways, and crossways hidden in light and shadow—the Man in the Moon wouldn't be able to locate the rodent when Guy was done with him. Being a professional scoundrel of sorts had its advantages given the length of time Guy Fawkes had been at it. He didn't Jack Frost from well Jack but others spoke well of the lad (even if Sandy doesn't really speak), and Guy owed May if only for the spring of 1606.

"I am sure that Mr. Valentine would not be so inclined to match make if his melancholia was distracted by oh, say, a visitor. Only the cupids and occasional tooth fairy have come by to his isle lately," Chuck said.

"You are about as subtle as the bunny on a bender," Guy replied before peeling himself off the couch and turning towards to nearest warren way, twelve steps out the front door and under a daisy (the rabbit Owed him one and skirting the Warren was an easy way to travel as long Guy didn't poach any eggs).

"Hanover Schützenfest."

Guy froze, one leg sticking out parallel to the ground. He could hear the clink of the cups as the Groundhog bustled over cleaning up. Guy didn't bother to ask the obvious: how he knew, if he had the missing camera, or the missing gown Aster wore and the stolen tea cosy **Guy** wore. Guy Fawkes only turned his head to look back and added, "Point taken."

Before Guy Fawkes crawled up out of the groundhog hole, he made a mental note under:

Never challenge Nicholas St. North to a drinking contest.

a. He is Russian, you're not—you'll lose.

b. Bonding with Bunnymund over a bender is better in theory than practice.

c. The Groundhog knows and probably has the photographic evidence to prove it.

Pulling himself up, Guy could only hope that he could swing Val away from the romantic comedies even if the romances got the various minions together. Guy never could completely remember to do a sweep before sitting down and getting a will wisp up the arse was only slight worse than getting an angry tooth fairy in his ear.


End file.
